Subterfuge
by Koshka Rayn
Summary: John has been around for far longer than anyone gives him credit for, and is responsible for a whole helluvalot more of the underworld -criminal and otherwise- than anyone could really say. (In which Moriarty is both John's right-hand man and pet slut, and Watson is a name to be feared. This contains mental and physical abuse, emotional manipulation, and other such things, beware.


"...John?" Sherlock stared at the spectacle before him almost uncomprehendingly, clenching his hands at his sides. "What...?"

"Oh, you're home," John smiled absently, still stroking his fingers through the notorious criminal's nearly-ebony locks. "Jim here was just paying a visit to his master, as he's been such a naughty dog recently, haven't you Jimmy-Boy."

Moriarty whimpered, squirming to bury his face further into John's jumper. "Sorry Sir..."

Sherlock simply stared, not quite able -or even entirely willing- to comprehend. "You...Moriarty is your, what, your pet?"

"Of course not, not just," John scoffed, tugging on a fistful of Moriarty's hair to pull his head back, tracing his lower lip with an almost tender thumb. "He is my right hand, my working hand. I tell him what to do, and he does it. Don't you, darling?" He smiled indulgently, giving deep chestnut hair a firm yank when Moriarty did not answer swift enough.

"Yes, Sir, yes, I am, faithful pet, Sir, please," Jim whimpered, helpless tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

"Perfect," John soothed, letting him settled back in his lap. "My perfect darling, you are just excellent, aren't you..."

"Thank you, Sir," Moriarty said softly, sounding both utterly ecstatic and wretched at the same time.

"Brilliant," John stroked lightly behind Moriarty's ear, making him shiver, before nudging him up. "Go on, make me a cup of tea. One for Sherlock as well."

"Yes Sir," Moriarty unstuck himself with seeming reluctance, wandering into the kitchen with all the appearance of a sleep-deprived zombie.

"I..." Sherlock stared at the criminal mastermind as he shuffled past. "You have...what even are you, John? How? Are...are you even John Watson?!"

"Of course I am, don't be ridiculous," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I've just been John Watson for a hell of a lot longer than forty years. Come, sit down, stop hovering about like an oversized bat."

Sherlock thumped down in John's customary chair, peering at his flatmate like he could see all his secrets if he stared long enough. "What are you?"

"Some people call my kind angels," John said genially, clasping his hands in his lap. "We are, of course, not, but we are certainly not human. We have been around since conscious thought, you see. That peculiar immutable belief that there is something greater, something godlike."

Sherlock swallowed, leaning back in the chair. "Can you manipulate people?" he asked, watching Moriarty hunt through the cupboards under the sink for a sponge, humming like a contented housewife.

"Of course not," John scoffed. "Jim is so easy to twist around is because of practice, you see. No special talent there...well, no more than what centuries of dedication can provide. Even the strongest soul can be broken like that."

Sherlock breathed a shallow gasp, pulling his knees up to his chest. "You were...me?"

"Oh, don't be silly," John smirked. "I would never, I am far too fond of you and your brilliant mind, you see."

Sherlock chewed his lower lip, eyes narrowing.

"Jim!" John suddenly yelled.

Nearly instantly, the man appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. "Sir?"

"How old were you when I found you?" John asked, propping his chin on his fist.

"Seventeen, Sir, and it was the best moment of my life," Moriarty nodded eagerly, smiling with an eerie earnestness. "You picked me up off the streets and a life of petty crime and gave me a place to call home, and I can never ever thank you enough-"

John held up a hand, and Moriarty instantly fell silent. "Thank you, darling, that is quite enough. Go on, now, finish up."

"Thank you, Sir," Moriarty nodded and turned back into the kitchen.

Even Sherlock winced at the crisscrossing of both fresh and old switch marks on Moriarty's bare back -layers of white scars and red welts.

"You disapprove of my methods," John said, arching an eyebrow. "You?"

"I..." Sherlock swallowed, unable to account for his discomfiture of seeing his greatest opponent in some sort of subspace haze.

John smirked, taking the cup of tea with a word of gentle praise.

Moriarty handed Sherlock his cup with a differential nod, then took a seat at John's feet, head leaning against the man's knee.

"I thought you were always portrayed as benevolent creatures," Sherlock said, setting the cup down on the arm of the chair and crossing his arms again.

"Oh, some are," John sipped his tea, humming delightedly. "Excellent, Jim, just the way I like it. You are getting much better."

Moriarty hummed, pressing his face to John's knee. "Thank you, Sir..."

"Anyway," John said, settling his palm on Moriarty's head. "Most of us are played off as benedictual beings, creatures of light and etcetera, but of course not all of us. Demons have to have come from somewhere, didn't they?"

In that moment, with John the perfect picture of ease and power, Sherlock could believe in angels and demons.

"How...then, how did Moriarty capture you?" Sherlock asked quietly, worriedly, eyebrows knit.

"Ah, well..."

At John's feet, James Moriarty released a fearful whimper, turning his face into John's leg.

"Jimmy-Dear had gotten a little too big for his britches, you see," John said, knuckles turning white with the grip he had on Moriarty's skull.

Moriarty keened, pressing up into the grip to lessen the pain. "I'm sorry, Master, I'm sorry, so sorry, Sir, please...!"

"He thought he could ruin me," John said, forcibly soothing his hold and kicking Moriarty over onto his back with a swipe of his foot. "He thought he could ruin me, through you. He was jealous of the attention I was giving you."

"...Oh," Sherlock averted his eyes from the spectacle on the floor, where John seemed to be grinding the heel of his military boot into the soft underside of Jim's ribs.

"He thought it would be a two-for-one deal," John said idly, still sipping his tea, when there came a soft crack and a whimper of pain. "Mm, seems I recracked the bone. Shame."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Moriarty gasped, eyes scrunched shut as he struggled to not move away from the pain. "Please stop, please, Sir, Sir, it hurts, please, I'm sorry-!"

"For fuck's sake, John!" Sherlock yelled, eyes scrunched against the squirming man. "Stop!"

Immediately, John lifted his foot, arching an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I thought you were a sociopath, Sherlock. Are you empathizing, now?"

"No, I, no...I..." Sherlock swallowed, the sounds of Moriarty gasping loud in his ears. "I'm...not. I can't."

"Sorry darling," John shrugged. "Some things you just can't help. Why don't you say thank you, Jim, dearest?"

Swallowing audibly, Moriarty shuffled to his knees and crawled over to the Detective on his hands and knees, head hanging between his shoulders. He knelt in front of Sherlock, hands on his lap. "Thank you for making my Master stop hurting me. I do appreciate it, even if I deserve my punishments for being bad."

"You...are welcome...?" Sherlock stared at the man at his feet incredulously.

"Thank you, darling," John purred, stroking his calloused fingers through Moriarty's hair when the man slunk back to rest his head against his knee. "That was excellent, I'm so proud of you."

Moriarty whined and ducked his chin, the back of his neck and the tips of his ears turning positively rosy.

"Mori...he was only ever just a front," Sherlock said, staring at his teacup like it was a personal betrayal. "You were the real power behind it all, weren't you?"

"That Great Game, as you called it, I had nothing to do with that," John sniffed, tipping up his chin. "That was all Jim. Now, the organization that he threatened was at his disposal? That is mine. They all answer to Jim, and Jim answers to me. Don't you, dearest?"

"Yes Sir," Moriarty quickly agreed, though his eyes didn't open even a crack. "Always, Sir."

John smiled, pleased, and looked up from his pet. "You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this, aren't you."

"Isn't it a prerequisite for a villain to monologue before they attempt to kill to protagonist?" Sherlock asked almost sharply, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm not a villain, dear," John sighed, rolling his eyes. "And no, I'm not going to kill you-"

"You say that like you actually could," Sherlock sneered.

"I could, even if I was only human, darling," John rolled his eyes, unimpressed with the detective's posturing. "Each time I 'die' I take the form of someone recently dead, and let me tell you -John Watson," he gestured to himself, "was not one to be trifled with. He was an army doctor, spec ops, quite a terrifying business, really. You two would have gotten on like a house on fire, once he got past his anger issues and your incessant needling. Short fuse, that man. Suspect one of the real reasons Stamford brought me round was to see you finally get laid out flat."

"You said just a few minutes ago that you've been John Watson for ages," Sherlock frowned.

John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Do you have any idea how many people are named some permutation of 'John Watson,' dearie? Thousands, probably, even in the US alone. I've never been short on corpses," he winked.

"That's..." Sherlock swallowed, ducking his chin.

"Terrible?" John raised his eyebrows, smirking faintly. "Why, I suppose it could be, couldn't it. There are many things I've done in all my many lives that could be considered terrible."

"Among other things, yes," Sherlock replied, crossing his arms. "You've never told me...what exactly are you going to do to me? I know so much about you-"

"Yes, precisely!" John sat forward, an eager glint in his crystal blue eyes. "How would you care to join me, Sherlock?"

The detective merely stared for several long moments, not quite able to process yet. "Join...you? Why would...you want _me_ with you?"

John arched an eyebrow, standing and marching over to lean heavily over Sherlock, pinning him flat to the chair. "Why? Why he asks? Why do you _think_ , Sherlock, darling?"

"I," Sherlock stared at him like he was some sort of incomprehensible puzzle, but with less corpses and more human interaction. "Because I am intelligent and you wish to get some use out of me before I burn out, most likely."

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, reaching out to gently trace the line of the detective's jaw. "You brilliant idiot. I _am_ actually incredibly fond of you. Perhaps something close to love, if I could know what _love_ was…" He drummed his fingers against the side of his throat, and Sherlock resolutely didn't flinch.

"You want to turn me into another...pet," Sherlock spat, twisting his face away. "Like that poor bastard back there, utterly under your whip."

"Wrong," John said sternly, eyes flashing black -like a void, filled with fathomless depths and millennia of pain. "Not a pet, not like him. You're much too precious for that."

"But still a pet," Sherlock sneered, shoving John out of the way and jerking to his feet, pacing around the coffee table to get more space between them. "I refuse to be a _pet_ , John, I won't let you leash me! _You_ of all people should know this!"

"I'm not trying to leash you," John said calmly, clasping his hands behind his back, watching Sherlock rage around the sitting room. "If anything I'm doing the opposite -removing the leashes of all those petty morals and such that you always complain about. If you join me, you never have to worry about those again -you can do all the science that you want, without anybody to tell you to stop. The only drawback I can actually think about is proving Donovan right."

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock said, almost weakly, mind flooded with all the things he could do if he agreed… "I couldn't give her the satisfaction."

"Well, you wouldn't actually have to put the corpse there of you didn't like," John mused, wandering over to stand closer to Sherlock, completely ignoring Moriarty, who had slunk to curl up as small as possible on the couch like a kicked dog. "You could plan it out, down to the last detail, pick apart every contingency, every weakness… Help us destroy those weaker than us, you know. We're not actually evil, really, we just seem to get painted that way. Since I took over, things have been _so_ much more settled down…"

"Shut- just, shut up," Sherlock waved an irritable hand at the other, lifting a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "Stop talking, christ, you're like the fucking demon of temptation in my ear!"

John smirked, crossing his arms and stepping back. He turned back to Moriarty, stroking his fingertips lightly over the man's pale side. "Alright, Jim, dearest. You can head home now."

"Alright, Sir," Moriarty dragged himself to his feet, stretching languidly and moving to reclaim his clothing from the table by the door. "Thank you Sir. When shall I be seeing you again?"

"...Soon, most likely," John said, watching Sherlock rip at his hair as he dithered back and forth.

Moriarty ducked a nod, straightening the sleeves of his pristine grey silk dress shirt and pulling on his jacket. He tucked his feet into his shoes and was off, wishing Mrs Hudson a cheerful farewell as he left.

"Is my landlady one of your pawns as well?" Sherlock asked bitterly, raking his hands through his unruly curls.

"Don't be ridiculous," John scoffed, sipping his tea and looking through that morning's copy of the _Times_. "I've had nothing to do with Mrs Hudson -Dimmock, though, he's one of my good men."

"Among how many others?" Sherlock asked, almost genuinely curious.

"Anderson's wife," John mused, turning the page of the paper. "Lovely woman, really must have her around for tea sometime. Newly Fashioned, of course, still believes in all those trite sentimentalities like love and adoration."

"Unfortunate for her," Sherlock said dryly, and they shared a commiserating grin before the detective recalled he was supposed to be annoyed with his flatmate and went back to barging around like an elephant. "Anyone else?" he asked grumpily. "Donovan? Lestrade, even, have you infected him?"

"Don't be ridiculous," John rolled his eyes. "Those in my organization know to keep their disquiet with you silent. I am unafraid of cutting off tongues."

"...Molly?" Sherlock asked, peering at John.

"The Hoopers have been with me since before the existence of America," John admitted with a shallow nod. "Her mother is one of my right hand men, though Molly herself is...a bit soft, as of yet. Most likely why she was able to be swayed by Jim so easily."

"She knows _you_ ," Sherlock said, and it wasn't a question.

"Yes," John nodded with a small smile. "She's surprisingly good at keeping her mouth shut when she wants to be."

"I couldn't even tell!" Sherlock exclaimed, frustrated. "Everyone has tells!"

"You don't even look at her," John shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Her supposed fascination with you makes you uncomfortable and you attempt to avoid her whenever you can."

Sherlock hummed, eyes narrowing.

"She does find you fascinating, to be sure," John smoothed the newspaper flat, tongue dipping out to wet his lips. "She just doesn't want to pin you down and fuck you into the floor, the way she projects."

Sherlock suddenly looked terrified, staring at John. "That's disgusting!"

"She played it well," John shrugged, sipping his tea. "Speaking of, I'll have to tell her to leave off. Miss Molly's an excellent actress."

"Did you plant here there specifically for me?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"No, I put her there because she enjoys playing with dead bodies and it's always nice to have a few hands in the morgue," John shrugged. "You were just a bonus -that's how I first heard of you, actually, while I was off taking over Afghanistan. Oh, Mike isn't one of mine, he actually did know the original John Watson, by the way. Completely incidental."

"That cabbie?" Sherlock asked, spinning to face John.

"Loosely connected," John waved a hand without looking up from his newspaper. "Debts owed and all that. Shame I had to blow him away, I suppose."

Sherlock's eye twitched. "I don't think I could ever get used to you talking about murdering people in cold blood."

John hummed, taking a sip of his tea.

~/\~

"Everything alright with John?" Lestrade asked cautiously, standing next to Sherlock among the flashing lights of the crime scene. "He's usually right here with you when you're chasing down a suspect."

"He's been...busy," Sherlock shrugged. "I've been trying to work something out and my stubborn recalcitrance has been infuriating him to no end."

Lestrade hummed, nodding thoughtfully. "That does sound like you...he's usually pretty patient, though. What's wrong?"

"Lots of things, probably," Sherlock shrugged, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "I just need some time to think things through."

"Oh, Christ," Lestrade stared at the man slumped on the couch, pressing his fist against his mouth. "Jesus... _Christ_."

"...Wow," Donovan stared. "Didn't think the freak had it in him."

"...Where's John?" Lestrade asked, turning to look at the woman behind him.

"Downstairs with the landlady," Donovan jerked her shoulder back. "He was the one who called it in. Says he was at the clinic all day."

"Have someone check it out," Lestrade said almost wearily, turning away from the corpse of the consulting detective. "I'll be going downstairs to question Mrs Hudson and John."

"Welcome to the club, Sherlock," Molly grinned down at the man, slowly blinking awake. "I think you're gonna like it here."

Sherlock grunted, glancing across the slabs to where John was waiting, holding his shoes in one hand and coat in the other. "John," he said delightedly, swinging his legs over the edge of the metal table. "Thank you for not killing me."

"Told you it would be a waste," John smushed a kiss against Sherlock's riotous curls, passing him the clothing. "C'mon, I still have to knock Molly out and get back to work before I get to disappear. Go tell Mrs H goodbye, I've filled her in."

"Getting sentimental in your age," Sherlock chuckled, elated, shrugging on his jacket with a barely restrained bounce.

"No more than you, you ninny," John rolled his eyes. "G'on."

~/\~

"Lestrade speaking."

" _Hello, Detective Inspector. It's been a while, hasn't it_."

"...John?"

" _Brilliant, you do remember who I am_."

"No fucking shit, you vanished not two days after your ruddy flatmate-slash-platonic life partner or something committed suicide. We thought we'd be finding your body washed up in the Thames… That was months ago."

John chuckled warmly. " _Yes, sorry about all the subterfuge, Lestrade. But...I have a proposition for you…_ "


End file.
